Prisoner
by BloodFromTheThorn
Summary: A falling out becomes a kidnapping and a kidnapping becomes a death, of sorts.
1. Prologue

d'Artagnan threw himself through the undergrowth with as much speed as he could muster, one hand clapped tightly to his side and the other steadying himself on passing trees. He'd long since lost his grip on the sword he'd stolen. It wasn't like he had the strength to fight with it anyway, even if they did catch up to him now.

He didn't think they would – they had no reason to follow him other than their own desire for satisfaction and he'd proven himself more trouble than that was worth. If God was good, he was free of them.

Breathing hurt more now that it had before, and soon enough he had to stop, half collapsing into a tree and gripping the bark with the last of his energy. It took time, and a great amount of gasping and groaning, but he eventually got himself situated at the base of the tree, his back propped up against the trunk so that he might look around.

Biting his lip, he pulled his hand away from the gash in his side and watched with almost idle fascination as the blood immediately started flowing onto the dirt beneath him. Sighing, he put his hand back. It wouldn't help – he was dead no matter what now – but it might buy him a few more moments.

Moments for what? Why should it matter if he died now or in an hour? No one was coming for him, there would be no rescue. His brothers had forsaken him and now there was no one left to care that he would end here, in the middle of a Spanish forest, miles away from everything he knew and loved. Habit, he supposed. He'd spent most of his life desperately trying to avoid death and now that he was facing it head on, he wanted to delay the inevitable. It wasn't in him to just give up now.

Constance would cry, he thought. It was a sad realisation, knowing that this would hurt her – he'd only ever wanted her to have all the joy and happiness she deserved, even if it couldn't be with him. God, he loved her. Knowing that he would never see her again was too unbearable to consider.

Maybe the Musketeers would hear of his death one day. Would they mourn? Feel guilty, knowing what they'd left their brother to endure? Even now he didn't want them to be saddened by his passing.

Death damaged everyone around you. You make your place in the world in life, and then when you're gone, there's nothing to fill the gap you leave behind.

d'Artagnan didn't have the energy to think about that anymore. His vision was growing dim, the sky a grey smudge above him though he knew that the sun was still up. Wild flowers grew in patches on the forest floor, bursts of colour that he could still make out. The wind made them dance. It was as good a place to die as any, he supposed, better than some certainly. For so long he'd thought he would die in that God-forsaken dungeon, cut off from the world in his final breaths. Now he could die with free air in his lungs. It was enough.

Exhausted, his eyes slipped closed. His hand had fallen away from his side he noticed, but he could no longer function well enough to correct it. Let it bleed. It was of no matter now.

He couldn't speak anymore, but he started reciting the Pater Noster in his head as his father had taught him. Having caused so much death, d'Artagnan had little doubt of which way he was heading, but it couldn't hurt to try, just one last time. Aramis would be proud.

It was the last thought he had before he blacked out.

* * *

_Look at me writing a multichapter fic again. Whooo._


	2. Chapter 1

_The support this story has received has been incredible. It's been a long while since my email has blown up like that. You guys are amazing._

_I worked out that (roughly) on horseback it would take 13 days to ride from Paris to San Sebastian but if anyone wants to correct me on that assumption, you're more than welcome to. _

_One last thing. This is set between series one and two. Anne is pregnant and the Cardinal is ill, but still alive. _

* * *

_Fifty Days Earlier_

* * *

d'Artagnan knew that this was all his fault. It still didn't make it sting any listen to Aramis shouting in his face, practically spitting venom at him, or to see Porthos glaring at them intermittently. Athos had gone with Treville to try and smooth everything over with the King so that Louis didn't make good on his threat to execute him.

It had all happened so quickly that even now, he couldn't be entirely sure of events. There had been a commotion near the doors to the balcony, the Musketeers guarding them drawing their swords with the familiar rasp of steel. Athos, who had been stood beside the king, acted with all his years of training to smoothly pull Louis into his shadow to protect him from harm but d'Artagnan, standing beside Anne, had been just a beat too slow. There was gunfire, more shouting and then he was desperately grabbing hold of the queen as she collapsed into him, slender, pale fingers clutching at the wound in her arm.

It was a simple injury – no lasting damage besides a scar. And yet that small graze could even now be enough to condemn him. Anne, once she had regained enough of her senses to know what had happened, had immediately brushed off the implication that it had been d'Artagnan's fault but if that wasn't enough to placate Louis then everything was about to get drastically worse.

Though from Aramis' tirade, it didn't look like d'Artagnan could count on him to be fighting his corner. It hadn't taken long for the Gascon to realise the connection between Aramis and the queen – he'd spent long enough pining after Constance to recognise the look of longing on his brother's face – but he'd kept his silence, trusting that it would never become an issue between them. Apparently he'd been wrong.

"Aramis," he cut in eventually, when the headache pounding behind his eyes threatened to overwhelm him. "I made a mistake. I'm _sorry. _But can you please at least wait to see if I'm about to be arrested before you wear your voice out?" Pain and fear made his voice harsher than it had any right to be – he was the one in the wrong here.

Aramis looked utterly furious, but Porthos spoke before he could start up yelling again. "He's right 'Mis. All that shouting might start to give folks the wrong impression." He raised his eyebrows pointedly and d'Artagnan realised that Aramis had _told _Porthos about his dalliance with the queen. He'd not had to work it out for himself. A tiny spike of hurt lanced through his chest.

There was a weight settling over d'Artagnan's lungs, pressing down heavily until it was becoming hard to breathe. He knew that he must look pale but no one seemed to give a damn. It was a strange sensation, thinking that he was probably going to die. In his line of work, there was always a high chance of never coming home again but after spending so long knowing that his brothers had his back, it was almost impossible for him to comprehend the idea of being alone in this.

But then, perhaps he was being overly dramatic. Aramis was worried and stressed – this was surely not enough for him to turn against his brother? And right now Athos was somewhere in the palace trying to convince Louis not to have him hanged.

"I really am sorry," he tried, this time making sure that his voice remained low and sincere. "I just…" He rubbed at his eyes, trying to wish the headache away.

Porthos huffed out a sigh and pushed himself upright off the wall, approaching for the first time. A heavy hand landed on d'Artagnan's shoulder comfortingly. "You'll be alright kid," he said. "The queen'll be fine – the baby too. She's not going to let anything happen to you when you did nothing wrong."

Aramis glared at them both, his lips drawn together tightly. "Just because the bullet didn't hit her belly, she could still go into shock! The child could still _die_!"

Silence flooded in after the statement, d'Artagnan's heart stopping dead. If his actions – or failure to act – lead to the death of the future heir to the throne, then there was no hope for forgiveness from the king or from Aramis. d'Artagnan had his suspicions about the true father of the unborn child but it was obvious enough from the glares between Aramis and Athos that the marksman felt he had a claim.

d'Artagnan didn't realise his knees had turned to water until Porthos was jumping in to steady him, hooking an arm around his shoulders and taking most of his weight. "Easy kid," he muttered. There was a glaring contest going on over his head, but d'Artagnan didn't care.

"I'm dead," he choked out, terrified. "He'll kill me."

"The Captain's not going to let anything happen to you," Porthos reassured him. "And neither are we. Ignore Aramis – you know he worries like an old woman when he wants to. The baby will be _fine, _and so will you."

Something in his sheer terror must have convinced Aramis that he was truly repentant, because he started shifting on his feet uneasily, rubbing at the back of his neck. "There's only a very small chance of any complications," he offered, even though he didn't sound like he believed it for a moment. "The queen won't let the king have you executed for this."

"If he even tries, he'll have to go through Athos first," Porthos said, letting a small grin poke through his frown.

d'Artagnan shook his head forcefully, a different breed of worry seeping in at the corners. "No. If I get arrested, you need to promise me you'll let it happen." He would not drag them all down with him.

"That won't be a problem," announced a new voice, and d'Artagnan jumped half a foot into the air before he recognised Athos' smooth drawl. "We're all free to go. The queen managed to convince Louis that it wouldn't set a good example to have his own men put to death, especially since ordering your execution would end with half the regiment on the scaffolding beside you." Athos' voice went quiet as he looked at his own feet, not meeting d'Artagnan's eyes. "Don't ever ask us to abandon you to death."

d'Artagnan's flood of worry was stemmed somewhat by the weight of Athos' words, and the understanding of what he'd been asking them to do. But no matter what it cost them, he would see them live. "I cannot promise you that," he admitted. "No matter what happens to me, I wouldn't have you on that scaffold for all the world, any of you. Especially not for my own stupid mistake."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aramis flinch badly. His dalliance with the queen must be lying heavily in his heart, only heightened now that Porthos knew as well – it was perfectly possible that a stupid mistake would see them all before the noose.

"Just be grateful it's not something we have to worry about right now," Porthos said, drawing them all back into the present situation.

Tension seeped out of d'Artagnan until he was leaning into Porthos to keep him on his feet. The bigger man didn't seem inclined to comment. "I think I need a drink."

"That can be arranged," Athos said, a smile catching at his mouth gently. Aramis seemed to shrink inwards with a huff, and left without a word; d'Artagnan tried to pretend that it didn't hurt like hell to see him walk away.

"Actually," he said quietly, "I might just…" He made to untuck himself from Porthos' side but the bigger man tightened his grip and didn't let him move an inch.

"Ignore him. He's being an idiot. You're coming to the Wren with me and Athos and we're going to have a good time." That, apparently, was the deciding vote and d'Artagnan found himself being shepherded out of the palace and down the familiar streets without another word. Porthos only released him once they were through the doors to go and fine some wine, and Athos took up the responsibility of dragging d'Artagnan to a table and forcing him into a seat.

"Stay," he ordered sharply, but he was smiling and the glare d'Artagnan threw him was too warm to be truly upset.

"I'm not a dog."

"I like to be sure about these things," Athos replied, sinking gratefully into the seat beside him. For the first time, d'Artagnan took note of the tense line to his shoulders, and the tightness around his eyes.

"What did the king say?"

Athos looked like he wanted to feign ignorance but conceded with a sigh. "The usual derogatory comments he makes when he's disappointed. A few threats to Treville."

"Serious ones?"

"Hard to say. Normally I'd say that he was just blowing off steam but with the Cardinal so ill… I get the feeling that he's in the mood to make foolish decisions without sufficient thought. We might need to be careful."

d'Artagnan huffed out a breath. He knew that what had happened had been his fault but it certainly didn't warrant the reaction it had garnered – an honest mistake that anyone could have made. "I'm sorry."

"You don't need to apologise," Athos told him instantly, looking almost angry at the idea. "You didn't do anything wrong. Aramis is… I know he's been difficult lately, with everyone. I'll talk to him."

"I'm not sure that he'd listen to anyone right now, even you."

"I've been told that before." Athos' mouth was twisted downwards, not quite a scowl but getting close. d'Artagnan wanted to ask but he was afraid to broach a subject that was so clearly a bad memory. "He'll listen."

Porthos appeared then, ending the conversation as he deposited two bottles of wine on the table and pushing on straight in front of Athos. Since ending Milady's machinations, Athos had been steadily growing less and less likely to lose himself in a bottle but even the strongest man couldn't just drop a habit of five years without any middle ground. The most noticeable compromise was that Athos would no longer drink alone.

"You both look like someone died," Porthos said. "Cheer up or you'll bring me down too."

"I fear I'm not good company tonight," d'Artagnan said apologetically, and made to stand. Athos' hand clamped down on his shoulder so quickly that he hadn't even seen it move, pinning him in his chair. The younger man frowned at it stupidly. "Um?"

"d'Artagnan, I can't believe that I have to be the one to tell you this, but you don't have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. Bad things happen and people make bad decisions, Aramis more than most. For the love of god, sit down and have a drink. You'll feel better."

The words were light, but there was an undercurrent of bare honesty there that had d'Artagnan sinking into his seat before he'd really had time to parse the statement. Silence spread between them for a long moment before Porthos rolled his eyes at the both of them and took a deep gulp of wine. d'Artagnan was fairly sure he heard him mutter the word 'morons' but he let it pass.

As was usually the case, Athos had the right of it. By the time d'Artagnan was stumbling into his room in the early hours of the morning, he had a wide grin fixed on his face, and Aramis' anger was so far from his mind that he couldn't have recalled why they were even fighting. Porthos deposited the _very _drunk Musketeer on his bed with a fond chuckle and left, pulling the door closed quietly so as not to disturb any other residents. Of one thing he was sure: d'Artagnan would be miserable come morning.

* * *

"_Why _did you let me drink that much?"

Porthos snickered at d'Artagnan's hunched form, his head buried in the forgiving cushion of his arms so that he could block out the stubbornly bright sunlight. "I didn't hear you complaining at the time."

"I have so many regrets."

Athos had settled himself beside d'Artagnan, a faint grin on his face the whole time. He wasn't a cruel man – he was sorry to see d'Artagnan suffering – but even he had to find him just a little endearing when he was like this.

"Treville will skin you if he catches you napping," Porthos warned him, but it was without real force. The Captain wasn't unaware of the fracture within their group, and he would overlook a lot for the best of his men – provided they did their duty with as much conviction as always, they had a free rein.

"Let him. I can't feel any worse."

"I wouldn't be so certain about that." The new voice startled d'Artagnan badly enough that he fell off the bench entirely, landing in an undignified heap on the floor and blinking up owlishly at Treville's balcony. The Captain raised an eyebrow.

"Um, sorry sir," d'Artagnan offered, embarrassed. He hopped to his feet with as much enthusiasm as his pounding head could muster and stubbornly ignored Athos' and Porthos' suppress laughter.

Treville seemed to decide that it was really just better to pretend it hadn't happened. "You're wanted at the palace. I gather the queen would like to speak with you."

Any humour that had been lurking in d'Artagnan's body left him in a rush, along with all his air; he only just stopped himself from collapsing back into the dirt. Athos and Porthos had simultaneously gone silent, their backs rigid.

"Did… Did she say why?" His voice was almost gone, breathless with fear.

The Captain looked sympathetic. "No. Whatever happens d'Artagnan, the Musketeers are your brothers. They will have your back."

d'Artagnan took the time to swallow back the feelings in his throat before he nodded, snatching up his weapons belt from where he'd left it on the table. There was no point in keeping the queen waiting – if she was going to have him punished, he might as well get it over with now.

Porthos snagged his arm as he tried to walk past, pulling him to a halt sharply. "Not so fast. We're coming with you."

"The hell you are," d'Artagnan snapped back instantly, tugging himself free. "The last thing we need to do is draw attention to anyone else. Besides, I can't look like I'm trying to defend myself without making is seem as though I'm guilty of something."

Porthos could see the truth in his words, but it didn't make him like it any more. d'Artagnan turned his back on his frown, trying desperately to calm his heart into something that wasn't driving him crazy. He couldn't help but glance around the gateway as he passed through it. For all he knew, he wouldn't walk through it again as a free man.

The thought was a gunshot in a wounded mind, and d'Artagnan was lost to the ache.


	3. Chapter 2

The queen was waiting for him in one of the wide halls in her suite, her ladies in waiting hovering uncertainly at the edges of the room. Despite the slight pallor to her features, she was as stunningly beautiful as ever, and d'Artagnan felt his heart ache at the thought he could have been her death.

"Your Majesty," he greeted, bowing respectfully.

She smiled at him warmly, and all the dread that had been pooling in the pit of his stomach dropped away in a rush. "d'Artagnan. Thank you for coming."

"Of course. I am yours to command."

He was gradually falling into the correct mannerisms of the court, but he'd been raised on a farm after all. It had taken Athos, Aramis and Porthos weeks to explain all the intricacies to him and when he was feeling particularly stressed or distracted, those lessons seemed to fly out the window. Anne's smile was enough to know that she understood that much at least. "I do hope that the king's words against you caused no lasting damage. He was merely worried for me. He did not know what he said."

"I failed in my duty," d'Artagnan pointed out as delicately as he could, wincing at his own words. "I will accept whatever punishment you deem suitable for my transgressions."

She laughed at that, cutting herself off when d'Artagnan flinched. Her eyes showed nothing but kindness when the Musketeer gained enough courage to peek a proper glance at her before returning his eyes to the floor at her feet, but it wasn't enough to quell the rising flood of terror at the back of his throat.

Anne was a gentle soul, and she wasn't a cruel woman. If she was going to have him executed, she would not have called him here for a genial conversation first. That being said, the fact that she wanted to speak with him meant that something had to be going on that was of sufficient importance to require the direct involvement of the monarchy and that was something that d'Artagnan knew he had to be wary of.

"I have no desire to punish you d'Artagnan," Anne told him gently. "There have been no transgressions."

d'Artagnan bowed again. "Your Majesty is too kind."

She waved it away with her uninjured arm. The one that had taken the bullet hung at her side, pulled close as though to protect it. "I did not call you here for such things. There is something of far more importance I wish to discuss." So this was something else; d'Artagnan gulped. "There is a… matter of some delicacy, which I would talk with you about. But before I do so, I need your word as a King's Musketeer that what we speak of will not be mentioned outside of this room to any but those I deem appropriate."

d'Artagnan hesitated, clearly unsure. It was his duty to do as she asked without question but if he was to be keeping secrets from his friends then things were about to become a lot more complicated.

Anne sensed his dilemma and smiled. "Your loyalty to your brothers is admirable. In this, you need not fear. I have every intention of involving Athos, Aramis and Porthos in my designs as well. This meeting was simply the easiest way of meeting with one of you that wouldn't draw attention and my task requires the upmost secrecy. I need to know that I can trust you with this."

It wasn't lost on d'Artagnan that she had spoken only of _her _task, as though it was not also the work of the king. He wanted to ask, but to do so would be the height of rudeness, and he could likely offend her sufficiently to have himself drummed out of the Musketeers. "I am yours to command," he repeated eventually. There wasn't anything else he could say.

"I have your word? Complete secrecy?"

"I will take your information to my grave."

This time Anne's smile was sharper, less kind and more victorious. For just an instant, she looked utterly powerful. "Well then. We have much to discuss."

* * *

When d'Artagnan made his way back to the garrison, night was already falling about him and the residents of Paris were making themselves scarce, leaving the streets empty and shadowed. He kept his hand on his sword hilt the whole way back.

Porthos was perched at one of the tables in the courtyard, nursing a glass of wine. As soon as he saw the Gascon, he put his glass down with a thump, rose to his feet and strode over to haul the smaller man into a fierce embrace. "Do not," he growled, "Do that again. No one has seen hide nor hair of you in _hours. _Do you know how worried Athos was?"

In truth, d'Artagnan hadn't even really thought about what his friends must be thinking. Since his own terror had left him at Anne's forgiveness, he'd forgotten that his friends were probably assuming the worst and were just waiting for news of his arrest.

A little shamefaced, he muttered "Sorry."

Porthos pulled back, eying him warily. "Where've you been all this time? With the queen?"

"Yes. She had… We have a mission. I don't want to talk about it here. We need to get Athos and Aramis too." Assuming, of course, that the marksman wouldn't continue to avoiding him. d'Artagnan was so tired right then that he couldn't summon the strength to worry about how he was going to get his friend back on his side – in that moment he just didn't care.

The bigger man seemed to pick up on his weariness, and thankfully he didn't stop to question him any further. "I can do that. Get to Athos' rooms – there's enough space there for us to talk without worrying about prying eyes. I'll find the others and join you."

"Where are they?"

"Aramis turned up in a bar a few streets over. Athos has been watching his back for the last few hours, once it became clear that he had no intention of pacing his drinking."

d'Artagnan felt his heart dig just a little deeper in his chest, but his brain felt like mush and he barely even flinched. "Alright. I'll meet you there."

Athos had had the common sense to locate his rooms near the garrison, so it only took d'Artagnan a few minutes to stagger there and make himself comfortable, lighting a few candles to illuminate the gloomy space. The elder Musketeer always kept very Spartan quarters, with as little furniture as he could get away with and still call it a home. Despite that, he always had four chairs and table so that the rest of them would have somewhere to sit on the rare occasions that the garrison was an insufficient meeting place.

He'd made it clear early in their acquaintance that d'Artagnan would be welcome to call it home should he ever need somewhere to retreat to in emergencies.

The others didn't take long to arrive, though when they did it was clear that Aramis wasn't wholly sober and if his stumbling gait was anything to go by, he wouldn't be able to do much more than sit and listen until he dried out. d'Artagnan looked at him warily, feeling his tiredness bleed away slightly as his focus sharpened.

Athos noticed the growing tension and sighed. A problem for another day, he decided. "Porthos said you had something important to tell us."

d'Artagnan took the invitation for what it was and drew a deep breath. "The queen has given us an assignment. Upmost secrecy. Anything we say cannot go any further than the people in this room and that includes other Musketeers."

"What about the Captain?"

"I was given the impression that she would explain everything to him once we were out of Paris but for now, he has no idea about any of it."

Athos frowned, shaking his head. "I would not go behind Treville's back without very good reason. He is our Captain and I owe him my loyalty."

d'Artagnan had known that this was going to be an issue, but he was still irritated they'd hit the wall so quickly. "I know that. I promise you, what I'm asking is not something that would go against anything he stands for. It is simply a matter of keeping this information as quiet as possible until it is too late to change anything."

"Never knew your loyalty was so easily discarded," Aramis slurred, his lip curling in distaste. d'Artagnan physically flinched away from him, eyes flashing betrayal. He was following his orders, nothing more, and yet Aramis seemed angry and drunk enough to take that as an opportunity to attack him.

"_Aramis,_" Porthos hissed, furious on his friend's behalf. "I don't give a damn what's going on with you right now but taking it out on him isn't going to help. Shut up and listen if you're not willing to be of use."

There wasn't a trace of their easy going friendship in that moment, just horrible tension and cold looks and d'Artagnan would give anything to be able to go back and fix his mistake. Hell, he would have jumped in front of the damn bullet if he could have done, his own health be damned.

It was Athos who broke the quiet, in the end. "You seem to believe that whatever the queen told you is worth your secrecy and I trust you. Tell us."

d'Artagnan hesitated a moment longer, but Aramis seemed content to fall silent and hear what he had to say. At least they were giving him the chance to explain and not just refusing him outright – it was more than he might have hoped for.

"This isn't the kind of mission we normally undertake," he started slowly, trying to think how to word this. "It is a personal matter to the queen and because of the politics involved, she cannot _order _us to do anything. Whatever we do, it is to be our choice.

"There is a group of mercenaries who have recently been causing trouble near the Spanish border – small robberies, raiding caravans, that sort of thing. The sort of people we deal with all the time. Two weeks ago, a group of Red Guards were ordered to go and arrest them."

"And it didn't go well?"

"The mercenaries had some sort of warning; we don't know how. They fled into Spain before the Red Guards could reach them in the hopes that it would be enough to dissuade them from pursuing. It wasn't."

"The Red Guards marched into Spain? Armed and without permission?" Porthos looked like he could barely believe even a Red Guard would be that stupid.

d'Artagnan nodded slowly, chewing on the inside of his lip. "The one thing that has stopped Spain retaliating so far is that the Guards weren't in uniform and they haven't admitted to working for the king. Spain don't yet know that they were there under orders. As soon as they have proof though…"

"King Philip will declare war," Athos finished for him, frowning into the shadows at the edge of the room.

"Yes. The queen would ask that we stop this from happening."

"How?"

"The Red Guards are being held captive in Saint-Sébastien. If we can make our way there without drawing attention to ourselves, we can rescue them and return to France before anyone is any the wiser." d'Artagnan knew just how much he was asking of them. If this went wrong and they were captured, France would have to deny affiliations with them and they'd be branded traitors to their country before they were summarily executed.

Porthos dragged in a large breath, held it, and then let it out in one huff. He shrugged, offering them all a small, sharp smile. "I'm up for it. I've been meaning to get out of the city for a bit."

Athos was more hesitant. "If we're doing this, we have to plan it carefully. One misstep could be enough to ignite a war, no matter what it would mean for us."

"I'm not asking you to plunge in blindly," d'Artagnan reassured him as best he could. "We have time to think this through."

"Not as long as you might think," Aramis said then, apparently deciding that however angry he was, this was a conversation he should take part in. "The ride to San Sebastián is at least two weeks. This sounds like something that we can't leave any longer."

Athos was nodding, frowning the way he did when he was trying to think things all the way through. A thrill of unease ran down d'Artagnan's spine; he had given the queen his word that he would do whatever he could to solve this for her and he had every intention of fulfilling that vow. If his friends refused to help him… It was a long ride to Saint Sébastien alone.

"We can't do nothing."

"The Red Guards haven't confessed who they are. They might have no intention of doing so."

d'Artagnan couldn't believe that Aramis could be so callous, even to men of a rival regiment. "You would abandon them to imprisonment without even _trying _to help?"

Something in his tone must have rubbed Aramis the wrong way, and the marksman was on his feet in a matter of moments. Athos rose with him to plant himself firmly between them, placing a quelling hand on Aramis' chest to force him backwards.

"_Steady_," he ordered. d'Artagnan had risen to his feet to back off, knowing that proximity to Aramis wouldn't end well for him.

"Get the _hell _out of my way Athos," Aramis snapped, trying to push himself forwards but Athos was having none of it. He planted his feet and refused to be moved. Porthos was hovering beside them, uncertain.

"You're drunk and stupid right now and if you don't settle down and act like a goddamn adult, I will treat you like a misbehaving child. You can either calm down or you can leave."

For the briefest of moments, it looked like Aramis was going to start swinging at them, but then he collapsed into himself with a sigh that tugged at the edges of d'Artagnan's heart. His eyes dropped to the floor and he backed away in heartbroken defeat, practically falling through the door as he left. He didn't look back.

* * *

_The __switching between Saint Sébastien and San Sebastián is due to the former being the French name for the city and the latter being the Spanish name. Since my preferred way of writing Aramis is as of Spanish decent, I figure he would use the Spanish name._


	4. Chapter 3

Porthos tried to grab hold of Aramis before he got away, but the marksman had been too quick for any of them to really react. Once he was gone, the three of them stood there in stunned silence, staring at the space where he had been.

"We should go after him," Athos pointed out at length.

Porthos was nodding in agreement but d'Artagnan shook his head. "You should go. If I try and follow him I'm more likely to end up in a fight than helping. He doesn't want to see me." He was trying to keep the hurt from his voice but from the sidelong glance Athos shot him, he hadn't succeeded.

"You need to get some rest anyway," Athos conceded. "You look dead on your feet and apparently we'll all need to be well rested for a long journey tomorrow. Are you alright to get back to the garrison?"

"It's a few minutes' walk, Athos, I can manage." It was true that he was exhausted, but the weight of Aramis' rage was latched too firmly to his spirit for him to even consider getting some rest. Still, he didn't want the others to start worrying about him too so it was best to play along until he was out of sight.

Athos and Porthos both looked unconvinced, but they let it pass. "If you're sure. We should get after Aramis before he gets himself into trouble."

They all trooped out of the small apartment, heading in opposite directions with only a few muted words of farewell. The air had grown colder since d'Artagnan had arrived, and he found himself hunching his shoulders to try and ward off the worst of the night's chill, his mind racing through everything that had happened as he trudged his way home. It would seem that Aramis was determined to be angry with him, no matter what.

It wasn't as if d'Artagnan didn't know that he'd completely failed in his duty, or why Aramis was taking this all quite so personally. Now that the deed was done, there was nothing he could do to take it back and to even begin to try to make things right, d'Artagnan would no doubt have to own up to the fact that he knew about Aramis and the queen.

Maybe it was time that he did. He wanted to believe that he hadn't brought it up because he wanted to spare Aramis the embarrassment but in his heart he knew that just wasn't true. He hadn't said anything because a part of him had been hoping that his friends would be honest with him and tell him the truth of their own volition. And yet even now, when it made more sense to tell him than not, they all kept their silence. Why? They didn't trust him with the knowledge? The idea was cutting.

By the time d'Artagnan made it back to the garrison, his mind was so twisted up in knots that he barely even noticed where he was. There were one or two Musketeers still lingering in the courtyard, sharing a drink before heading their separate ways and for the briefest of moments, d'Artagnan entertained the idea of joining them. He didn't need his three friends to have a good time after all.

But by the time he reached them, the thought had passed, and he swept by them in silence. No doubt he could spend his evening with those Musketeers and earn himself the hangover to end all hangovers and for a few hours at least, he would be able to settle into a state of calm contentment, but by the time he awoke in the morning, all his problems would still be there. Aramis would still be angry, the Red Guards would still be in prison, Constance would still be married to a worthless husband… Drinking was no solution.

Despite the whirling thoughts, d'Artagnan's body was adamant about needing rest. He found himself laying on his bed – fully clothed since he lacked the energy to remove even his boots – staring at the cracks in his ceiling.

It took him several long moments to realise that the soft humming he could hear was actually coming from his own mouth, an old lullaby he could just remember his mother singing. He couldn't remember the words at all but the gentle melody was familiar and comforting even if it was something he would never admit to anyone else and he used it to centre himself. The world outside his door was a cold and unforgiving place but whatever uncertainty he might feel out there, here he was safe. Here, he could rest.

For once, God must have shown him favour because it was finally enough to allow him to slip into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

It was far too much for him to hope for a full night's sleep, and he was thoroughly unsurprised to wake before dawn had made its presence known. There was no point in lying about in bed, so he forced himself to rise so that he could at least start preparing for the long road ahead.

d'Artagnan could at least find comfort in the knowledge that Athos and Porthos would be accompanying him. For a while there he'd thought he'd be making the journey alone. But even with their support, he had no way of knowing whether or not Aramis would be willing to bear his company for so long, even by order of the queen and after all that had happened, d'Artagnan wasn't even sure that he wanted him to come. If it would mean a month of scornful glances and snappish conversation, he'd rather just go alone.

But as with all things, it was out of his hands. Besides, this didn't seem like a problem he could just run away from and hope that it would get better.

When the dawn finally came, it found d'Artagnan packed and ready to go. He'd stayed in his room – definitely _not _hiding – but he knew that he'd have to poke his head out sooner or later to see what greeted him. So with great determination he gathered his courage, took a deep breath and -

\- and there was a knock at the door. For a moment he was too stunned to remember what to do but he shook himself out of it fast enough to open the door without too long a pause.

A dishevelled Aramis was staring back at him, looking equally as surprised as d'Artagnan to find himself there. Neither of them said anything straight away, somehow both reeling from shock even though Aramis must have known that knocking on his door could only lead to one outcome. Unless of course he'd been hoping that d'Artagnan wasn't in. First thing in the morning. The day of a mission.

"Um," d'Artagnan said inelegantly when Aramis still didn't seem inclined to explain why he was there.

The marksman seemed to flinch a little at even that small sound and d'Artagnan felt a piece of himself flinch as well in response. This wasn't something he had the strength to deal with right now. "So, Athos spoke to me," Aramis said eventually, once the silence had gone well beyond awkward.

"Oh?"

"He told me what I said last night. I don't really remember much of it," he said, waving his hand in a vague way as though that explained everything. d'Artagnan didn't know if he was supposed to say anything in response so he stayed silent, his heart beating in his throat. "From what he told me… I was being unfair."

He had been more than _unfair, _d'Artagnan thought but he didn't say anything for fear of scaring Aramis away again. He'd noticed that even though he'd admitted fault, Aramis hadn't actually apologised for anything and given by the way he had trailed off uncertainly, it didn't look like he had any plan to do so in the immediate future. Somehow, that made it worse.

"I just wanted to tell you that I'm coming to San Sebastián with you," Aramis concluded lamely.

Swallowing hard, d'Artagnan was just about able to choke out, "Thank you." It felt like his stomach was filled with ice, crawling through his limbs with agonising slowness. The ride to Saint Sébastien was at least two weeks – fourteen whole days of enduring this silent agony simply by being in the presence of a man who was supposed to be one of his closest friends.

Aramis either didn't hear the catch in his voice, or simply didn't care, because he turned and left without another word, not looking back once. Was he forever going to be walking away from d'Artagnan?

This whole situation was beyond ridiculous. d'Artagnan didn't know if he was supposed to feel sorry or angry at this point and was caught somewhere between the two without really understanding what to do. He had made a mistake and that had almost cost the country her queen and future monarch, and his friend the woman he loved. It was enough to condemn him, no doubt. And yet, despite that, d'Artagnan had always trusted his friends to have his back when he couldn't watch it himself, just as he did for them and this shouldn't have been enough to shatter that trust. But it had. And Aramis had made no attempt to stop it or to explain himself, apparently content to let d'Artagnan wallow in the silent misery of the ignorant.

Feeling worse than he had when he woke – which was truly an achievement – d'Artagnan tried to convince himself that he needed to go and eat something before they headed out, even if it meant being in Aramis' company. The ache in his belly seemed to be suppressing his hunger but he hadn't eaten since leaving the palace yesterday evening and he knew that he had to be starving underneath all the other hurts inflicted on his soul.

Thankfully, Aramis wasn't sat at their usual table when d'Artagnan made it to the courtyard, though the Gascon instantly felt bad for feeling grateful about that. Athos wasn't anywhere in sight either but Porthos seemed to have been waiting for him to show up because as soon as he saw him, his face relaxed out of the worried frown and into a softer, gentle smile.

"There you are. Wondering where you'd got to."

"I, err, overslept," he lied unconvincingly as he settled himself down across from the big man. A bowl of rather unappetising porridge was shoved his way.

"Course you did," Porthos agreed easily, his eyes on his own food. "That's why you look so exhausted."

d'Artagnan hadn't even considered how he must appear but he realised now that he must be a wreck and Porthos always was the most observant out of the three of them. "Porthos, I-"

"You don't have to explain anything to me d'Artagnan," he said, cutting him off and shooting a soft, somehow reassuring glance in his direction. "Athos might chew you out for being overtired on a mission but that's just his way of telling you he's worried about you. As for me, I'm here if you want to talk and I'm here if you don't. Whatever you need." As he spoke, he didn't raise his eyes from his own bowl of porridge and purposefully kept his voice light and easy, the clearest way he could show that this was entirely up to the Gascon.

d'Artagnan had never felt so grateful to anyone in his life. "You're a good friend Porthos," he said once he could find his voice again. "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me. Friends are supposed to be there for one another and if Aramis has forgotten that, it's his problem. I'm not about to follow his lead."

The conversation was cut short there by the appearance of Athos, who looked d'Artagnan up and down once and then frowned at what he saw. "You and I need to have a long talk," he announced, "but not right now. Aramis is getting the horses ready. Finish up and we'll head off – I want to make a decent start today while the weather's still mild."

"What's the Captain thinking about all of this?"

Athos' voice dropped lower, so that only the two of them would have a chance at hearing him. "He knows enough to let us go without questioning us. He wasn't happy about it but…"

"But he trusts you," Porthos finished for him, smiling widely. He was willing to use any and every opportunity presented to him to try and boost Athos' self-worth.

Unwilling to dignify that with an answer, Athos rolled his eyes and headed off in the direction of the stables to help Aramis with the last preparations. d'Artagnan scooped the last of the porridge into his mouth, swallowing before the bland taste could really register on his tongue. He hadn't even noticed he'd been eating it, but apparently his unfelt hunger had taken matters into its own hands – it was becoming clear just how desperately he needed proper rest.

Hurrying a little now that things were happening, d'Artagnan took his leave of Porthos and headed for his room to collect his things, sparing a moment to look around the bland space. As much as he'd disliked the owner, the Bonacieux house had become something of a home to him over the last year and now that he couldn't go back, he found that he missed it far more than he might have guessed. Or perhaps he just missed Constance and was projecting his issues. Either way, it wasn't the time to worry about such things, and he forced the thought out of his mind.

The Captain was on his balcony when d'Artagnan returned, looking down at them all with an unhappy twist at the corner of his mouth. Sending his men into danger was one thing, but letting them run off to fight a danger he didn't know about was infinitely worse. d'Artagnan threw him a salute before accepting the reins of his horse off a stone faced Aramis and hauling himself up into the saddle.

Being on a horse was a familiar enough feeling to loosen some of the tense muscles in his shoulders, and he breathed out an almost silent sigh of relief. Movement and action would be something to distract him from everything else going on at the very least and right now, it was exactly what he needed – even if this mission in particular was one he would rather sit out. In two weeks, they'd be riding into Spain, illegally. It would be enough to start a war if things went wrong.

He had to have faith in his friends. If anyone could pull this mission off it was them and he trusted them with his life implicitly. They could do this.

This would not be the last time he rode out of the garrison, he was sure of it.

* * *

_People wanted more brotherly Porthos so I did my best. D'Artagnan's a little all over the place this chapter – I'm really tired so I think I'm just projecting all my exhaustion onto him and using it as an excuse but whatever. I might have to clean that up soon but for now, have a chapter. _

_It's exam season again (yay) so updates are going to be sporadic. Sorry about that._


	5. Chapter 4

_No I'm not dead! Sorry that it's been so long. I was travelling for a month in which I didn't touch this story, then I got back to the UK and I had to head straight back to uni. By the time I'd settled in (to a new house that is great by the way), I'd managed to pick up some work as a freelance writer – I'm so thrilled about it and it's a good chance to earn a small amount of money on the side (as a poor student, any money is good money). The downside is that my recreational writing time is dramatically decreased. Sorry about that. I hope you can understand. I won't be disappearing entirely, I promise!_

* * *

Thanks to an overdue stroke of luck the weather stayed clear and mild, the unbearable heat of summer not yet manifesting itself. d'Artagnan rode beside a forcefully cheery Porthos so that he wasn't forced to focus too much on Aramis' stubbornly turned back. He hadn't so much as glanced in d'Artagnan's direction since leaving the city, and the Gascon wasn't hopeful that they'd be able to resolve their differences before they reached Spain.

By early afternoon, it was becoming harder and harder to ignore the way that Aramis wouldn't even look around to make sure they were both still okay, as was the usual custom when they were out on the road. Normally, jokes would flow freely between them, conversation only breaking off when they were required to listen to their surroundings; today they travelled in silence.

Blessedly, Athos called them to a stop earlier than usual just so that he could escape the awkward cloud that lingered over their heads. d'Artagnan slid off his mount with a weariness he hadn't felt in years, compounded by the continuous uneasy churning in his gut that had been making him feel nauseous since midday.

Completely at odds with his awful mood, the sun hung bright and shining above them with an oppressive cheeriness he was starting to loathe. And yet, this was only a reminder of the blazing weather yet to come. Summer was always an ordeal when they were wearing their uniforms but the further south they travelled, the more unbearable it would become until even the most warm-blooded among them dreaded the thought of riding through the midday heat.

Despite the pained atmosphere, Porthos seemed determined to maintain his cheery façade – though it hadn't gone unnoticed that he barely glanced in Aramis' direction and didn't once direct a comment at him. d'Artagnan was spitefully grateful. This was how friends should act when one of them had been wronged; Aramis should learn by his example.

As soon as the thought struck him, he felt guilty – the emotion was brutally forced away.

Athos, again coming to their aid, spared them all further discomfort by sending Aramis scurrying for firewood, leaving the rest of them to clear sufficient space to use as a temporary campsite. Even in the marksman's absence, the atmosphere was decidedly lacklustre.

By the time d'Artagnan was able to lie down to sleep, his head was so full of tangled thoughts he was unable to find rest for several hours. To his undying gratitude, Porthos, who had first watch, didn't say a word.

Either by dumb luck or Athos' intervention, Aramis had the second watch and Athos the third, so that d'Artagnan wasn't forced to interact with the marksman in any way until the next morning. Even then, their 'conversation' was nothing more than the absolute minimum required and both remounted to continue with heavy hearts and grim faces.

The next day passed in a similar manner to the first, made worse by d'Artagnan's obvious exhaustion. He couldn't continue like this for much longer and all of them could see it, he was sure. He was only able to hide his hands shaking by gripping the reins with all his strength.

Athos at least waited for the privacy offered when they stopped for lunch to approach him. He sat down beside him heavily, obviously just as weary as d'Artagnan was and dealing with it just as well. "You know that this can't continue," he said after a long moment of silence.

d'Artagnan ducked his head. "What exactly would you suggest I do?"

"I know that Aramis is being unreasonable…" Athos said, then sighed heavily, rubbing at his face as though to wipe away the weariness clinging to his features. "Did he talk to you about the other night?"

"He said that you'd told him he was being unreasonable. That was about it." There was a bite in his voice that made it obvious just how he felt about Aramis' avoidance of an apology.

Athos sighed again. "I tried to convince him to talk everything through with you. Evidently that hasn't happened."

"Athos," d'Artagnan started, then stopped, considering. He eventually decided that there was no point in skirting around the truth. "At this point I'm not sure your intervention is going to help. Aramis has made it blatantly obvious that he wants nothing to do with me and somehow that's my fault, but right now, I'm not sure that I care. I failed in my duty to protect the queen, I know that and I'm desperately sorry for it but I thought I was going to _die _for it. I was terrified. And Aramis… He didn't even _care._"

The words were sharp and filled with every ounce of hurt that had been festering in d'Artagnan's chest since everything had gone wrong. Athos physically flinched away from it.

"That's not true," Athos said determinedly, his face pale even under the warm sunshine. "That will _never _be true d'Artagnan."

"How certain are you?" d'Artagnan asked bleakly. Now that the words were out of him, he just felt empty and hollow, an odd void in his chest that made breathing so much more of a chore than it was supposed to be. "Just… Let him hate me Athos. We finish this mission together and then we can all go home. He never even has to speak to me again after this."

d'Artagnan couldn't be sure if it was just his fatigue chipping away at his determination, or the fact that for the better part of a week he had been forced to watch one of his closest friends, a man he would call brother, hate and rage at him, but he was done with it. If giving up on everything they had built together was a way of ending the pain, he would take it. It was cowardly and awful, but there wasn't room to care. All d'Artagnan could feel was the aching emptiness.

"You know that I can't just let you leave it like this," Athos argued. His voice was low so that it wouldn't carry to the others, but the determination was still burning there, fierce and strong. "We can still fix this d'Artagnan. Don't give up hope."

It hurt to hear him so certain when d'Artagnan couldn't bring himself to believe it. He offered his mentor a bleak smile. "It can only be fixed if Aramis wants it to be. And I'm not holding my breath."

He pushed himself upright with that, intent on going to make sure his horse was alright. There was still a chunk of bread in his hand that he had absolutely no desire to eat; he tucked it back into his saddlebags in the hopes that his appetite might return later. After picking at his breakfast, he should be hungry by now.

The others picked themselves up and wandered over a few minutes later to claim their own mounts. Porthos passed a critical eye over the Gascon as he pulled himself into the saddle, frowning at what he saw.

"Did you eat something?"

Out the corner of his eye d'Artagnan saw Aramis flinch very slightly as he settled into his saddle. The smile d'Artagnan forced wouldn't have convinced a child. "Of course."

Porthos' frown darkened at the obvious lie, but he followed d'Artagnan's gaze to Aramis and understood. The expression his face softened into was almost worse than the glare – so full of sympathy that d'Artagnan felt fresh grief tear into the numbness he'd been clinging to.

Oblivious to the silent conversation, Athos urged his horse into a walk. They were in a hurry to reach Spain, but none of them enjoyed riding fast when they'd just eaten and this was a courtesy that they would normally all be grateful. As it was, d'Artagnan just wanted to reach Saint-Sébastien as soon as possible so that he could be done with this. He was tired of trying to appear strong.

They settled into the same rhythm as before, with Athos taking the lead, Aramis a few steps behind him and Porthos and d'Artagnan riding abreast at the rear.

"You should eat, you know," Porthos mumbled in an aside, watching Aramis for any reaction that he'd heard.

"I don't feel well," d'Artagnan excused lamely. From the disbelieving look that Porthos shot him, the deception wasn't working.

"Perhaps that's because you've barely slept in three days and you've not eaten anything since last night. If I were you, I'd probably feel pretty out of it too."

"I'm fine. If anything happens, I won't be compromised."

"That's not what I'm worried about and you damn well know it. d'Artagnan, I said that I wasn't going to pry and I'll hold to that but I can't sit in silence and watch you starve yourself to death. Please."

It was his eyes that did it, so pleading and sad that d'Artagnan would have felt like a monster to refuse him. He tugged the abandoned bread out of his saddle bags with a sour look. "That's hardly fair, you know."

Porthos' grin was sly. "We all have our talents. If mine is to get you to eat, I would consider it a blessing."

The bread was still fresh – they'd only been out of Paris two days – but it tasted like dirt in his mouth. He almost spat it out instantly, but Porthos was still watching him like a hawk and he forced himself to chew mechanically.

It was at least a two week ride to Saint-Sébastien. It was going to be agonising.

* * *

In the end, it took them all fourteen of the predicted days. They'd not had much trouble on the roads which was a blessing, and crossing the border had been much easier than any of them had been expecting. Their uniforms had been stashed with the small Musketeer garrison Treville kept as close to the border as he dared, and all of them had been sorry to travel on without the reassuring weight of the pauldron at their shoulder.

Relations between the four of them had grown strained, if that was even the word for it. Aramis was still refusing to so much as look in d'Artagnan's direction which was possibly a good thing, because two weeks of minimal food and rest had left the Gascon thinner and frailer than normal. His deteriorating condition had visibly enraged Porthos but the greatest impact it had seemed to be on Athos and Aramis' relationship. Athos' concern over d'Artagnan had lead him to talk to the marksman on several occasions and after each encounter they had drifted a little further apart.

So it was that the band of road-worn travellers who rode up to The Green Paddock finally arrived at their destination. The inn was on the outskirts of the city, enough so that it would be overlooked by anyone important enough to cause them problems, and was a fairly seedy establishment that didn't promise a comfortable experience. After two weeks on the road, none of them were about to complain about bedbugs.

As soon as they were all off their horses, Athos took charge. "Aramis, you're our communicator. Go and find the landlord and ask for rooms – two if possible but we'll take one if that's all he has. I don't care what it costs." He flicked a coin purse at the marksman who caught it and disappeared without a word. "Porthos, I know you want to rest but we need some awareness of the local area. Take a stroll. If you're approached, admit that you're French but don't announce it if you have any choice. d'Artagnan and I will take care of the horses."

Porthos looked grim at being sent out without even stopping for a drink, but he passed the reins of his horse to d'Artagnan and went without complaint. It was true that they needed to know about the area – none of them had ever been to the city before and being uninformed was a good way of getting yourself killed.

For all that the inn looked rough, the stables were large and clean, obviously well-tended. A half asleep stable hand eyed them warily as they passed but didn't move to stop them or to help.

"Do we have a plan yet?" d'Artagnan asked quietly as he pulled the saddle off Porthos' horse, the beast nosing at his shoulder curiously.

"We need to know where we're looking. As far as I know the Musketeers don't have any informants in the city so we're going to have to dig around the hard way." Athos looked grim even as he said it.

"We're not going to be able to conceal that we're French."

"I know. I just want to prolong it as long as we can. If anyone asks, we're merchants looking to expand into Spain."

d'Artagnan looked pointedly at the sword on his hip. "We're fairly well armed for merchants."

"The roads are dangerous."

"There's no way anyone's going to believe that someone as noble as you is a merchant."

"I don't intend to show them my family tree d'Artagnan," Athos said, half smiling. "They don't have to have any idea that I'm not merchant-born."

The easy conversation was something that d'Artagnan had missed fiercely over the last fortnight, and now that it was offered up to him again he felt like a starving man being presented with a feast. He snatched at it greedily.

"You look noble."

"That's strange, considering that not one of you knew who I was before I told you."

"We never claimed to be genealogists. But you still look noble. Something in your nose, perhaps?"

Athos sighed but it wasn't a frustrated noise. Clearly he had missed this just as much as d'Artagnan had. "My nose is perfectly fine. If I tell people I'm a merchant, they'll believe me."

d'Artagnan let a moment of silence pass before he said, "We don't have any merchandise."

"Do you have a better plan, or is this all unhelpful criticism?"

"Unhelpful criticism," d'Artagnan admitted without the slightest shame. "It's a good plan, really."

"Well, now that we have your seal of approval…" Athos' lips curved upwards in a way that d'Artagnan hadn't seen in far too long. He couldn't help the gentle snicker that escaped him at the sight.

d'Artagnan was just finishing untacking his own horse, searching for the brush he'd used to rub down Porthos' now resting mount. It was late in the day, the shadows of the stables drawing out into a persistent gloom that was making it hard to see his companion. He felt the easy going conversation slip away into the darkness and spared himself a moment to mourn its passing, wishing they could stay there longer.

"Is there anything else you want me to do tonight?" d'Artagnan asked.

"Eat something," Athos said. "I'm serious – don't think I haven't noticed you picking at your food. We're here for a reason d'Artagnan, and we need to be prepared for it."

He had far too much respect for Athos than to try and pretend he didn't know what he was talking about. "I know. I will eat, I promise. Recently I've… Not felt well."

"I'd noticed," Athos said drily.

d'Artagnan shot him an unamused look that was lost in the darkness. "I'm not the only one who's been out of sorts, if you'll recall." He slipped out of the stall now that his horse was settled, stepping up next to where Athos was waiting for him. Together they made their way back past the now sleeping stable hand and towards the lights of the inn, twinkling invitingly in the darkness.

Aramis was leaning beside the main door, waiting for them. The pain d'Artagnan felt at the sight of him had dulled with time to a low ache but he could still feel it with every second that they spent in each other's company. When they grew nearer, d'Artagnan fell back to let Athos deal with him.

"There's one big room that will fit all of us," Aramis informed him, entirely ignoring d'Artagnan's shadow in the background. "If we'd rather have more space, there's one two bed room and two singles available."

Athos was already shaking his head. "I'm sure we'd all appreciate the privacy but none of us are risking sleeping alone. What did you tell the innkeeper about us?"

"It would seem that I've picked up a French accent strong enough to hear," Aramis said with no small amount of disgust. "It's been too long since I've been in Spain. I didn't tell him our business here but the longer we avoid the question the more suspicious he'll become."

"If he knows we're French and he's still willing to let us stay, all is not lost. Tell him we'll take the bigger room and ask about food. I think we all deserve a hot meal."

Aramis nodded slowly, then glanced around in confusion. "Where's Porthos?"

"He's getting us a feel for the area. He'll be back soon I'm sure."

"You shouldn't have sent him off alone," Aramis scorned. It probably wasn't meant as such, but d'Artagnan's wounded mind couldn't hear that as anything other than the marksman saying 'you should have sent d'Artagnan instead.' He bodily flinched and took a step back without thinking.

The movement caught Athos' attention, and he turned to look at him in confusion. "What?"

"I want some air – I'll go and make sure Porthos is okay. Aramis is right, he shouldn't be alone." He turned on his heel and dashed off before either of them could even try to stop him – not that Aramis cared. He heard Athos call after him but no one followed him so he didn't slow down until the inn was long out of sight.

It might be dark but summer was well on its way now, and the air was still warm and heavy around him like a solid mass, too thick to move through with his usual finesse. When he was so strung out, it was oppressive.

It wasn't until d'Artagnan had marched down two streets that he realised he had no idea where Porthos had gone and no way of finding him without asking anyone if they'd seen him. He made himself stop moving with real effort, glancing around on the off chance that Porthos might be within sight.

"Way to go," he muttered to himself. There wasn't anyone close enough to hear him speaking French – the streets were almost empty now that the night had fully taken hold. He should probably be watching his back.

With no other option, d'Artagnan turned back in the direction of the inn; at least there he could wait for Porthos to appear. If he was going to fulfil his promise to Athos and actually eat something, he needed time to prepare himself to stomach it. Having to deal with Aramis' stony silences and sharp glares was enough to put any one off their appetite.

This couldn't continue, that much was obvious. At this point it was really just a question of who was going to snap first – whoever it was, this wasn't going to end well. d'Artagnan just knew it.


	6. Chapter 5

Porthos didn't turn up for another half hour or so, time which d'Artagnan spent leaning uncomfortably against the side of the stables in the hope that the shuffling murmurs of the horses would be enough to cool his blood. When his friend materialised out of the gloom, it still hadn't worked.

The older musketeer took in his tense stance, and the way he was very much not inside getting something to eat, and sighed quietly into the darkness. d'Artagnan flinched slightly, his overworked brain immediately assuming that he was about to be scolded for being so stupid as to pass up comfort when it was offered, but Porthos simply took the moment to prove yet again how kind a friend he could be, and said nothing. Instead he hooked an arm around d'Artagnan's shoulders and tugged him gently in the direction of the inn.

"Don't know about you," he said conversationally, "But I'm starving."

d'Artagnan let the smallest of smiles escape him, sinking into Porthos' side. "I'm sure we can do something about that."

The main room of the inn wasn't exactly cosy, but all the furniture seemed to be mostly in one piece and the room wasn't overly crowded. It made it easy to spot the table in the corner that Athos had placed himself at, an empty plate in front of him and a scowl on his face; if it hadn't been for Porthos' arm around his shoulders, d'Artagnan would have probably fled there and then. As it was, there was nothing he could do to stop himself from being pulled across the space and folded carefully into one of the empty chairs.

"Aramis has been convinced to retire for the night," Athos told them so they didn't have to ask. "He was in the mood for a fight and I would like to avoid that for as long as possible."

"Might not be that easy," Porthos pointed out, his dark eyes scanning the inhabitants of the room. Most people seemed to have already gone to their rooms, but there were still a few people occupying the multitude of tables, and their arrival had not gone unnoticed. Several patrons were watching them carefully.

"We are travelling merchants," Athos said, "And so if we don't start any trouble, we should be left in peace."

"It doesn't always work out like that."

"I know. But nonetheless we will do everything we can to prevent conflict, and if that means Aramis needs to shut himself in the room then so be it." There wasn't a huge amount of sympathy in his voice, and silently d'Artagnan was comforted. He didn't want Aramis to feel like he had to lock himself away but at the same time, he would take any option at this point that meant he could avoid being in the other man's company.

Porthos nodded slowly, then tilted his head in d'Artagnan's direction and raised an eyebrow at Athos, a silent question.

Athos sighed heavily and shrugged. "If you have any grand ideas to fix this then I'm all ears."

"I am right here," d'Artagnan pointed out, irritated all of a sudden. He felt like a wayward child being discussed by his parents and it instantly had him on the defensive.

The look Athos shot him at that was distinctly unimpressed. "I'm well aware. You also look like you're moments away from collapsing, which makes me all the more certain that this has already been going on for far too long. You seem to believe that doing nothing is the only option you have. I'm hoping that Porthos has a different opinion."

"Something has to be done," Porthos chipped in quietly. "I just don't know what yet."

"Me neither," Athos lamented.

Still angry without rational cause, d'Artagnan pushed himself to his feet and away from the table, intent on getting away – going _anywhere_ if only to have some space – but he was stopped short by Porthos' hand clamping down hard on his shoulder and pinning him in place. He didn't try to force him back into the chair, but he didn't let him move even an inch further away.

"d'Artagnan, you need to eat something," Athos said with as much calm as he could muster. "This is non-negotiable. Please, sit back down."

There was genuine pleading in Athos voice and it was that d'Artagnan focused on. The serving girl was approaching their table with two fresh plates of food, glancing at the three of them uncertainly as though she was expecting them to break into a fight at any minute. Aware that he was drawing attention they didn't need, he slumped back into his chair in defeat.

"You're both ridiculous," he informed them sourly as one of the plates was set in front of him. It did actually smell rather appetising, but it wasn't enough to get past the nauseous, unsettled feeling that had taken up residence in his stomach since leaving Paris and he winced at the thought of having to eat it. He knew that Athos wouldn't let him get away with anything less at this point.

Porthos didn't have any of the same hesitation it would appear, as he dragged his own plate towards himself and dug in. d'Artagnan poked at his own food with his fork for a long moment, seriously wondering whether there was any way of convincing the others he genuinely wasn't hungry.

"d'Artagnan," Athos said quietly, bringing an end to his musings, "If you don't eat that of your own volition, Porthos and I are going to force it down your throat. I would suggest you get to it."

In an attempt to avoid angering him again, Athos had kept his voice light with gentle teasing, but there was enough iron underneath for him to be sure the threat was not an empty one. d'Artagnan's only response was to collect a forkful of what appeared to be mashed carrots – why anyonewould mash perfectly good carrots was beyond him – and shove it into his mouth, chewing mechanically and swallowing as soon as he was sure it would go down. It wasn't elegant, but it would get the job done without making him feel too queasy.

Porthos was watching him out of the corner of his eye with something like concerned affection. "We need to teach you a better way of dealing with problems," he muttered quietly, but it was fond instead of accusing.

Thankfully, it didn't seem as though anyone was expecting him to reply to that, because the table lapsed into companionable silence for some time. d'Artagnan kept choking down his food with as much speed as he was physically capable of, half expecting his gorge to rise at any moment and send him retching into the bushes, but it never happened. Through sheer force of will he managed to eat it all, and was rewarded by one of Athos' eternally rare smiles.

"Not too difficult?" He teased mildly.

d'Artagnan didn't have the energy in him to glare. "Am I free to do as I please now?"

"If what you want to do is go to bed, then yes, by all means."

He was tired, exhausted even, but all that awaited him upstairs were nightmares and Aramis. It was not an attractive prospect. "What if it isn't?"

"Then stay here for a while. But you're not going to be leaving the inn again tonight, no matter what you say." It was obvious that there would be no arguing on this point, and d'Artagnan felt his heart sinking into his chest even as his stomach twisted up into his throat.

Porthos seemed to catch his discomfort because he stretched loudly beside him and huffed in contentment. "Well, I'm exhausted. Time for me to turn in I think."

Athos caught on quickly. "I think I'll do the same. We've got a lot to do tomorrow after all."

Aware of what they were trying to do, d'Artagnan shot a scowl at both of them but didn't protest. It wasn't like he could avoid Aramis forever no matter what he did and he had no desire to linger in this unfamiliar place alone; he had never wanted to be back in Paris so badly as he did in that moment.

His feet felt heavier than normal as he trudged up the stairs behind his friends, a subconscious effort to delay his inevitable arrival he supposed. If either of the others noticed his stumbling, dejected footfalls, they were kind enough not to comment on it.

The door they eventually stopped at was towards the back of the inn on the second floor, far enough away from the main room that the noises of the patrons had faded into near nothingness. The rest of the building seemed utterly silent – if d'Artagnan had been slightly more awake and slightly less twitchy, he might have been concerned. As it was, he could barely spare the brainpower required to make the observation.

Aramis was clearly still awake when they entered, but he was lying on the furthest bed from the door with his back firmly to them as he stared at the wall; he didn't look up at their arrival. Cold stones settled in the pit of d'Artagnan's stomach, making him regret his dinner that much more as it churned in distress.

Perhaps fortunately, their room had been built along the back wall of the inn, squashed into the small space left behind when they had laid out all the other rooms. As a result, it was long and very thin, only just able to fit the length of a single bed with a small space through which to squeeze yourself, with the four beds all in a row. Since Aramis had taken the one at the end, d'Artagnan was perfectly free to take the one closest to the door and coincidentally put Athos and Porthos between them like a shield.

Athos sighed when he saw what d'Artagnan was doing, but he didn't draw attention to it, simply taking the bed closest to Aramis without a word.

The whole situation was getting out of hand, d'Artagnan knew. They couldn't continue on like this, not if they ever wanted to be able to serve in the same garrison together and if there was one thing d'Artagnan was not willing to risk, it was their commissions. It was glaringly obvious that he and Aramis would never be able to work together as they had done before, but that wasn't to say that they couldn't both be Musketeers – there were plenty of people at the garrison that d'Artagnan barely spoke to.

Having had two weeks to think it over, d'Artagnan had more or less resigned himself to this fact even though he still didn't quite believe himself when he said that it didn't hurt. What he couldn't bring himself to think about was that Aramis' loss would inevitably lead to the loss of Athos and Porthos as well. There was no doubt in his mind that given the choice between them, Athos and Porthos would be forced to side with their old friend over him, and while it physically pained him to think that, he didn't blame them for it; they had known Aramis for years, and he had stood with them through all the traumas that d'Artagnan had only heard mention of – his year with them was nothing compared to the brotherhood forged in half a decade of battle.

His return to Paris would be the end of it all, he knew. He wanted to cling to these last few weeks with his friends because he knew how much it would hurt when they were gone but he was hesitant, afraid that if he held on too tightly they would retract themselves all the sooner. He couldn't have that.

Settled on the bed beside him, Porthos rolled over and stuck out his arm to poke him in the side without warning. Startled, d'Artagnan yelped.

"I can _hear_ you thinking. Get some sleep," the big man muttered sleepily. The room wasn't large enough that the others wouldn't have heard the comment, but neither of them stirred. d'Artagnan wasn't sure whether he was grateful for that or not.

With an apologetic hum, he rolled over, putting his back to the room so he was facing the door, an instinctive attempt to keep watch over his friends when they were vulnerable. It wasn't as though he was going to be sleeping much anyway.

He could hear as the others dropped off to sleep one by one, their breathing patterns evening out into a low comforting hum that was so intimately familiar d'Artagnan knew he would mourn it's loss come dawn. Porthos was the first, able to fall asleep at the drop of a hat and to rise again just as quickly. Athos was normally the last to sleep – whether by choice or not – but the exhaustion they all felt was clearly dragging on him too, and he was out shortly after Porthos.

For several hours d'Artagnan lay in the quiet darkness, listening to Aramis' steady breathing but it never once dipped towards indicating sleep. He was sure that Aramis was doing to exact same thing as he was, but neither of them made any attempt to acknowledge that fact or even roll over to look at the other. The way he reasoned it, d'Artagnan wasn't going to apologise anymore, so there was nothing for him to say. He still felt the guilt clawing at him.

About an hour or so before dawn, d'Artagnan at last felt his overworked mind starting to slow down, letting him ease into a trance-like state that was too shallow to dream but was just deep enough that he could get at least a small amount of rest. It wasn't enough, and he knew it, so when dawn light started spilling through the window d'Artagnan couldn't help but groan softly.

Porthos stirred at the noise, and d'Artagnan rolled over in time to see him push himself upright to scowl mulishly at the daylight. It was enough to drag a small smile from d'Artagnan, though the joy was almost instantly crushed by the grief he could already feel for the moment when he would lose him. The smile died as quickly as it had arrived.

Apparently oblivious to the mess that was rattling around in d'Artagnan's head, Athos chose that moment to roll himself out of bed and stretch slowly, checking to see that they were all awake. "I'll fetch us all some food," he announced, tugging on his jacket as he did so. "Then we can decide what we're doing. Whatever happens, we have to be out of here as soon as possible."

"The sooner we're back in France the better," Porthos agreed easily.

Even though the morning air was warm, d'Artagnan reached for his jacket just to give his hands something to do, a painful lump lodged in his throat. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Aramis nodding.

"I can ask around. There's surely someone around that knows something of value to us," he offered hesitantly. Even though d'Artagnan wasn't willing to turn and look at him, Aramis' voice alone was enough to convey how tired he was and the Gascon felt a fierce pang of guilt slide through his chest.

Athos shrugged lightly, his eyes sad as he looked over them. "We'll discuss it when I get back. We've got a lot of work ahead of us and not a lot of time to do it. Get yourselves cleaned up."

With that he was gone, and d'Artagnan shuddered as his heart clenched up inside of him. For the first time, he could truly comprehend the gravity of their mission and its weight was almost enough to shatter his faltering self-control. What Athos was calling 'a lot of work' was actually something that was so far beyond anything d'Artagnan had ever had to do before that he didn't have any idea where he would even start. He didn't speak Spanish for starters, which put questioning people entirely out of his reach, and they needed to do whatever they could to avoid drawing suspicion which would be practically impossible. Even if they did somehow find a way to free the Red Guards – then what? Run for the border as fast as they could and hope no one noticed them?

He felt his own face growing pale as he considered the enormity of the task. He had given the Queen his word – it wasn't like he could back out now even if he wanted to. And that meant there was really only one question: What the _hell_ did they do now?


	7. Chapter 6

Athos returned shortly with a tray overflowing with breakfast foods, all of which seemed determined to turn d'Artagnan's sensitive stomach. In what could only be a spiteful move, Athos pushed the largest plate in d'Artagnan's direction with a firmness that didn't allow for refusal, the smallest of smiles hiding under his goatee.

Unwilling to draw attention to himself but utterly unable to eat properly, d'Artagnan covered his lack of appetite by nibbling ineffectually at the crust of a slice of fresh bread. Beside him, Porthos grunted in disapproval at the ruse, but evidently decided against calling him out. Yet another reason that d'Artagnan needed to be grateful to the man.

"So," Athos said into the awkward silence a few minutes later, "Does anyone have any bright ideas?"

"I can try to ask around for information," Aramis said, an obvious peace offering. "Maybe find out what actually happened to the Red Guards."

"Do what you can," Athos ordered. "But be _careful. _We're travelling merchants, remember – no one should be expecting us to immediately start asking questions."

A thought occurred to d'Artagnan then but, for the first time in a long time, he hesitated on announcing it to the others. He'd not been afraid of voicing his opinion since he'd earned his commission and it was strange to feel the cold thrill of fear in his throat again after so long.

Mentally kicking himself, he forced the words past the knot in his chest. "If we were truly hoping to start trading here we'd be expected to visit the local magistrate to request a trading pass. He'd probably also be the person who would know the most about any recent arrests – even if he doesn't want to tell us, I'd guess he'll have records in his office." He directed the words at Athos to avoid being forced to meet the marksman's gaze, his voice strangled.

Athos' smile of acknowledgement was encouraging. "It's as good a place as any for you to start, Aramis. Porthos, go with him and watch his back. If he can distract the magistrate for long enough, it might give you the chance to have a look at his records without leaving him any the wiser."

"I don't speak Spanish," Porthos reminded him needlessly. "Even if I found the right reports, I wouldn't know what I was looking at."

"I can teach you some of the most likely words to come up," Aramis offered quietly. "Even if you can't read it, you could snatch the most likely documents. I doubt anyone would notice if arrest warrants went missing in a case like this."

"It's a risk," Athos said after a few moments of consideration. "But it could work. Only do it if you can't see another option."

Aramis and Porthos both nodded in agreement, obviously already planning how they could approach the situation without drawing undue attention.

"What about us?" d'Artagnan asked Athos.

"The maps I looked at before we left Paris indicated that there are two main prisons: Ondarreta by the shoreline and another, smaller one in the southern district. It would be my guess that prisoners of such potential significance as the Red Guards would be held in Ondarreta, though we can't be sure until we see those reports. Without any other course of action available, I'd suggest we investigate the area surrounding Ondarreta."

"If we end up needing to break someone out, it would be useful to have a good understanding on the land," d'Artagnan concurred.

It was strange, how comforting it was to have a course of action in front of them, no matter how their individual missions actually turned out. Just having a task, something to focus their attention on was endlessly calming compared with the painful uncertainty of the journey from Paris. Already, d'Artagnan could feel his chest loosening up in way he hadn't felt in weeks and it was even enough for him to take a proper bite of the bread he was holding. Porthos hummed appreciatively.

"We'll head out as soon as we're finished," Athos instructed them, then lapsed into silence so that he could eat some more of the food on his plate. Having been wrapped up in his own misery, d'Artagnan was only just now realising that he wasn't the only person in the group to have had their eating habits impacted – all of the others were looking paler than normal and he could have sworn he saw a slight tremor in Aramis' hands.

The same thrill of guilt that had been eating away at this stomach raced up d'Artagnan's throat without warning and effectively bringing an end to any chance he had of eating anything else. He slammed his chunk of bread down on his plate with far more force than necessary and shot to his feet.

Athos' expression didn't change from the blank disinterest he had let it lapse to, but he did manage to order, "Sit down and finish your food, d'Artagnan."

For the first time in a long time, d'Artagnan completely ignored him. He all but fled the room, hurrying down the stairs with a kind of desperation that he was sure must show on his face. In an unusual stroke of luck, he actually managed to make it outside and across the yard before what little breakfast he'd eaten reappeared with violent force. He coughed and spluttered through the ordeal, just barely remembering how to breathe in between bouts of retching so fierce he thought his stomach might tear itself to pieces. His eyes watered at the assault.

He couldn't do this. How could he possibly continue on this way, when every little heartbreak was able to wound him so deeply he couldn't breathe? He knew with a suddenness that was almost painful that he should never have agreed to come here. The Queen's standing in Spain was not worth this.

Even as he thought it, he knew it wasn't true; the Queen was the one influencing force on Louis that actually had the power and motivation to do something _good _in the name of France. Even if it were, Aramis was never going to back down when something was liable to hurt Anne, and Athos and Porthos would fight at Aramis' side until the very end – he couldn't abandon them now. But, God, he wished he could.

Finally his retching died away to nothing more than painful cramps, and he was able to spit out the worst of the foul taste on his tongue. Carefully avoiding the mess he'd made, he slumped to the floor in exhausted defeat and did his very best not to weep.

That was how Athos found him twenty minutes or so later, his face tight with distress. "The others have gone to find the magistrate," he said as he approached, "It' just us for now."

d'Artagnan nodded slowly, trying to find the part of his mind that was in charge of forming coherent conversation but failing.

Athos sighed heavily and dropped down next to him. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

Struggling to find the right words, d'Artagnan counted his heartbeats until he reached one hundred, then shrugged. "You know what's going on Athos. Don't make me say it."

"I know what's happening, yes, but that doesn't usually translate to you racing out of the room without warning. What set you off?" When there was no response, he cursed softly under his breath. "I'm not asking so that I can scold you for it, you know. I want to know so that I can try and make sure it doesn't happen again. We can't keep going like this and you know it."

"Of course I know that."

"And yet here we are, having the same conversation we've had a hundred times over the last week. Please d'Artagnan, talk to me. Do you think I enjoy seeing you like this? Let me help."

Fresh guilt threatened to overwhelm d'Artagnan again and he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes to try to steady himself. "Christ, it's-" He stopped, took a breath, and tried more calmly. "Aramis' hands were shaking. That's what set me off. I've been so busy being wrapped up in my own problems that I never stopped to see what was happening to everyone else. You know he didn't sleep last night? He was awake the whole time."

"And how exactly would you know that when _you_ were supposed to be sleeping?"

d'Artagnan didn't even have the energy to feel sorry about that. "I want to talk to him. There's no fixing this and I'm going to have to be okay with that but we need to find a way to be around each other. Otherwise this mission is never going to work and if it goes wrong…"

Athos had the look of a man who was so far out of his depth he couldn't even see the surface anymore. "Let's worry about one thing at a time, alright? Aramis isn't going to be back here until this evening anyway, so right now we just have to worry about the mission. We're going to have a look around Ondarreta and when we get back, we'll all sit down together. Does that sound like something you can manage?"

He sucked in a deep breath, gathered his courage and nodded sharply. "I can do that. One step at a time, right?"

"Right." Athos pushed himself to his feet and held out a hand to help his friend. Still feeling a little unsteady on his feet, d'Artagnan had to cling to him for longer than he would have liked before he could take his own weight. Even then his knees trembled threateningly beneath him.

In the days that would follow, he'd realise that should have been his first clue that it was never going to be as simple as Athos had suggested it could be, but he didn't know that then. At that point, he thought he might actually be safe in letting himself feel just the briefest flashes of hope that things might turn out alright after all when he had friends like Athos beside him.

His hopeful lies wouldn't matter. The universe would be sure to remind him of the truth.

* * *

_Ondarreta was a real prison in San Sebastian, though it was demolished some time ago. I'm not sure exactly when it was built – without a lot more research I can't tell and that's a lot more work than I intended to invest. I figured no one would mind._

_Super short chapter but this was a nice cutting point, so. _

_I know this took forever. Things got in the way and this has been really difficult to write somehow. I'm much better at chapters where things are actually happening and I get a little bit lost on build up chapters like this. I tried. Now things actually start to get interesting at least. _


	8. Chapter 7

Ondarreta was a hole. That was d'Artagnan's first impression and it didn't really go uphill from there – it was clearly old and very poorly tended with the walls crumbling and cracked, overgrown with ivy and grass. For a little while they hoped that the disrepair might make it easier for them to recover the Red Guards, but a closer inspection killed that dream rather suddenly. While the building might be past its prime, the bars on the windows were solid enough and the grounds were patrolled regularly. Athos had nearly gotten himself caught examining the back gate.

"This isn't looking good," d'Artagnan muttered when they regrouped past the treeline. He could just see the sandstone structure through the leaves.

"Yes, I'd noticed," Athos snapped back acidly. He'd clearly been shaken by his run-in with the guards – perhaps remembering what was at stake if they managed to screw this up even the smallest amount – and compounded with their general fatigue, it had made him waspish. d'Artagnan was doing his best not to take it personally.

Unable to come up with a response to that which wasn't petty, d'Artagnan pressed his lips together and turned to look in the direction of the prison instead.

In the sudden, tense silence, Athos realised he felt just a little bit awful. d'Artagnan looked like he was half dead after everything he'd been through and here Athos was heaping on more problems for him to deal with, simply because he wasn't having a good day. He should apologise but there was no way of broaching the subject without turning the atmosphere unbearably awkward and it wasn't like he was about to be forgiven for it anyway. The silence continued uncontested.

They needed a better plan, d'Artagnan knew. If the others had discovered that the Red Guards were being held at Ondaretta as they suspected, they weren't just going to be able to walk into the place and let them out. They certainly didn't have the man power for a frontal assault even if they didn't need to be wary about drawing attention. Their best bet was surely to find some way of sneaking past the guards without raising the alarm but with the continual rotations and the sheer number of people patrolling, it wasn't like there were any obvious openings to be exploited.

"We're in trouble, aren't we?" He said aloud, letting the bleakness show on his face for a moment.

Athos' expression was equally grim. "I'd hoped that the prison wouldn't be so heavily defended. It certainly makes things more complicated." Normally that would be the end of it, but d'Artagnan must have looked worse than he thought because almost instantly Athos was wincing apologetically. "We'll be fine. It's nothing we haven't done before."

"You'll have to remind me when we've ever done _anything _that vaguely resembles this," d'Artagnan shot back, aiming for humour and completely missing the mark.

Athos' expression twitched closer to annoyance before he wiped it clean. "This is a mission like any other," he said firmly, obviously not believing it himself, "And we will complete it as we always do. Being defeatist isn't like you."

There was nothing d'Artagnan wanted to do more in that second than to snap at his friend, to remind him of everything he'd had to try to deal with over the last two weeks but he bit his lip sharply and held his tongue. He forced himself to remember Athos' face when he'd sat beside him that morning, assuring him that he'd get him and Aramis to sort things out between them; forced himself to remember how d'Artagnan had _believed _him, for a single, shining moment.

"So what do we do?" He asked instead of voicing any of the annoyed comments rattling around in his skull.

The look of impressed relief on Athos' features let him know he'd made the right decision. "I want to watch the guard patrols for a while," he said. "If we can try to pin them down to a more regimented pattern then we might be able to find a gap in their ranks. There's also a chance we might see something implying the Red Guards really are here."

d'Artagnan glanced around them, eyes catching on the stonework of the prison and contemplating the secrets within. "I'll loop around to the other side. We can cover more ground that way."

"Be _careful. _We can't be sure there aren't patrols in the forest for secondary protection. Even if we're not technically breaking any laws by being here, it's going to look highly suspicious to have two Frenchmen lingering around a Spanish prison."

He nodded easily, mildly grateful to have a valid reason to excuse himself from Athos' company. It wasn't anything against the man himself – d'Artagnan just knew that with his emotions swinging wildly about as they were, he was better off alone for a while.

The forest was dense enough that he could move without too much risk of being spotted by any of the guards beyond the treeline, but there was enough room to manoeuvre at relative speed. In truth, d'Artagnan was content to take his time, carefully picking his path through the ancient boughs to disturb as little as possible – there was a certain comfort to be found in making his way through this pocket of the world without leaving his mark on it. He liked the forest, far more than he ever had the bustle of Paris, and it was almost blissful to be back amongst the quiet of somewhere so secluded. Places like this would always feel more like home to him than the big cities.

Maybe when they got back to Paris – assuming they pulled this ridiculous plan off without a hitch – he could petition Treville to grant him a few days off so that he could escape the urban confines for a little while. In days gone by, it would have been a lovely way to spend some time with his friends without the threat of a mission hanging over their heads but it was painfully apparent that those days were long gone and d'Artagnan had no real hope that they were ever coming back. It was far better to just accept that he only needed to look out for his own worries now.

He let his mind wander away from himself, desperately trying to escape the dark thoughts that sank sharp claws into his heart. His training was in-built enough that he retained some awareness of his immediate surroundings but he wasn't particularly worried; there was some distance between himself and the prison walls and, as yet, they'd not seen any soldiers this far from the complex.

It was always going to be a mistake.

Voices drifted towards him on the breeze with a suddenness that startled him, snapping him back into the present with enough force to hurt. His muscles spasmed momentarily in panic before his logical mind asserted its dominance and brought his body carefully back under control, crouching low, listening intently. The voices sounded again, murmuring to each other in incomprehensible Spanish, a little closer than before – they were coming towards him.

d'Artagnan's breath caught in his throat – _how could he have been so _stupid_? _– but he beat back the fear threatening to take control. The voices were almost directly in front of him – he couldn't continue on in the same direction. To his right, the edge of the forest loomed, heading towards the prison and entirely without cover to conceal himself, making it an impossibility. He could turn around and go back the way he'd come, regroup with Athos and get them both out of here without alerting anyone, but that carried the risk of leading the guards right to his friend. He couldn't risk them both being detected.

His only real option was to turn left and head deeper into the forest, putting the prison at his back. Honestly, it would almost be a relief to put more distance between himself and Ondaretta. With any luck he'd be able to circle back around later without detection, but right now he just needed to focus on getting as far away from those guards as he possibly could.

The voices were much closer now, almost upon him, and he _needed_ to move. Taking more care than before, he picked his way through the trees, keeping low and doing his best to avoid standing on anything that might alert the guards. With the forest floor covered in fallen twigs and shrubbery, it was an impossible task. His trailing foot landed lightly for a split second before the solidity beneath it gave with a startling crack, the supposedly smooth earth revealing itself to be a half buried lump of bark, now split in two.

"¿Quién está ahí?" The shout was close, too close, and d'Artagnan almost fell over when he startled. His heart thudded heavily in his chest. Distantly he was aware that he wasn't breathing properly, trying to hold his breath in case the sound of it alerted them. His vision wavered sickeningly.

He needed to think quickly – his only real options were keep still and hope they wrote the sound of as nothing (unlikely), or to cut his losses now an run. He was fast and used to moving through forests; it might be enough to let him get away.

There was a crunching, snapping sound behind him as someone forced their way through the undergrowth with purpose. That more or less made the decision for him then, didn't it?

Dispensing with any pretence, d'Artagnan pushed himself up in one smooth motion and took off running. He heard shouts from behind him almost instantly but he didn't let himself falter, darting this way and that to try to lose them amongst the trees – with enough luck, he should be able to get cleanly away.

The ground was uneven and keeping his footing was more of a challenge than he'd counted on but he pushed himself forwards anyway, trying to pick up speed even as he stumbled and slipped. The sounds of pursuit didn't fade away as fast as he'd hoped but there was nothing he could do now other than keep moving and hope his stamina would outlast theirs. Branches snatched at his clothes, his hair, one catching him on the arm hard enough to draw blood in a single line of pain but he barely even felt it, wary of the way his lungs were starting to burn and his legs began to protest their continued abuse. He could run for hours without a problem but a dead sprint wasn't something he could maintain.

He'd just about come to the decision to slow down a little when his day went from terrible to utterly unsalvageable. A tangle of tree roots came out of nowhere when he turned too quickly, trying to break the eye line of his pursuers, and snared both of his legs in one fell swoop. He hit the ground hard, only just catching himself before his skull bounced off the tightly packed earth and felt something in his wrist give with the force of his fall; he bit off a strangled curse, already trying to push himself up again.

Had he been just a little bit further away, a little less winded, a little more well rested, he might have made it.

As he was, he didn't stand a chance. A booted foot landed on his spine before he'd even gotten half way to standing, forcing his face back into the dirt and holding him there as they shot rapid-fire Spanish in his direction. Breathless and unable to understand either way, d'Artagnan could do nothing more than snarl at them in barely restrained fury. He shouldn't have been so stupid as to get caught – this could ruin everything, no matter what happened to him now.

For a single, crushing moment, d'Artagnan was utterly overcome with despair. Not only was there every chance he was now going to spend the rest of his days rotting in a Spanish jail, but his own stupidity might just be the final spark to ignite a war with Spain – the very thing he'd been sent here to stop. How could he have failed so completely?

Hands tugged at him, pulling him upright with little care for what damage they might do to him. That more than anything told him that he wasn't going to like whatever came next.

* * *

They shuffled him into a cell with very little ceremony. He thought that he might have caught sight of Athos through the trees as they hauled him towards the prison but he couldn't be certain and he hadn't wanted to draw attention by staring. If he was the reason any more of them ended up in here… He couldn't cope with that.

A part of him assumed that someone would arrive shortly to talk with him, maybe to demand answers for why a supposed merchant was spending his day snooping around a prison, but no one appeared at the door. In the distance he could occasionally hear shouting from his fellow inmates and the disinterested responses from their guardsmen, but other than that he was left in peace. Unexpected though it may be, he welcomed it. No matter what, they weren't going to ignore him forever and there was a very good chance he wasn't going to like whatever it was they had planned for a known Frenchman.

He spent the time sitting against the back wall of the cell beneath the small gap that constituted a window – he'd already paced the room and felt every stone of the external wall for a weakness and found nothing that might help him escape. For now, there was nothing he could do other than wait.

Unable to let himself think of what might become of him now or what could be happening to his friends at that very moment, d'Artagnan forced himself to empty his mind. What else could he do? Thinking of the Musketeers dredged up fear and concern, as well as the underlying nausea at the reminder of Aramis' distance, and thinking of Paris only made his mind swing to Constance, her loss a red hot brand of pain against his heart that he couldn't bear to consider. It was unlikely he'd ever get to see her again. His older memories of his family and their home had long since been soured by his father's death and the loss of his farm.

It was almost impressive to realise that there was nothing he could think of in his life that didn't bring him pain. How had that happened? When had he lost everything he once held dear? Once upon a time he had been a young man in Gascony with a home and people who loved him, a head full of dreams and aspirations and eyes that shone in the sunlight when he smiled. Now, he was imprisoned in a Spanish jail with no way out and little in his life to hope for.

"So much for the glory of Charles d'Artagnan," he muttered to himself, under his breath. It wouldn't do for a passing guard to hear him and learn his real name.

More time passed without note, the light from the window gradually growing dimmer as the air cooled around him. In winter it would have been cold to the point of pain, d'Artagnan was sure, but so close to summer, the drop in temperature was welcome. He stayed slumped against the wall as the sun went down, ignoring the cramping in his legs, and tried to tell himself that he wasn't as defeated as he felt.

By the time his door opened, it was almost a relief.

The man that stepped into the room was short, probably barely up to d'Artagnan's shoulder, but whippet thin with a subtle line of strength lying about his shoulders that would have been worrying if the Musketeer could have mustered up the energy to care. He was dressed simply in a pale tunic and breeches, clean but not overly pretentious, and his greying hair was combed neatly off his face and held in place with a strand of twine. It was his eyes that really caught d'Artagnan's attention. Even in the fading light, the pale grey gaze cut right through the air between them and into his very heart, breaking past any defences he could think to summon and d'Artagnan felt something cold slide down his spine as their eyes met. For all that the man's appearance presented an impression of complete banality, those eyes were anything but normal.

"It is strange to find a Frenchman in my prison," the man said after a long moment of tense silence, his French only slightly accented with a Spanish twang.

Desperately hoping that the man was merely bluffing, d'Artagnan bit his tongue and said nothing.

The man's smile was sharp. "Of course, maybe my informants are wrong. I _had _heard that you rode into town yesterday with your friends. French merchants, they said. How strange that a merchant should be so interested in a prison such as this."

Still, d'Artagnan remained silent. If this man knew about the others and had reason to suspect them… This could all go very badly.

"If I am wrong, I suppose you wouldn't understand me, would you?" The man said lightly, waving a hand in the air as though illustrating his point. "I doubt a regular Spanish commoner would know enough French to follow what I'm saying. I could say anything and you wouldn't understand a word, would you?"

d'Artagnan scrambled to remember whatever Spanish he'd heard in the past, anything Aramis might have tried to teach him on lazy nights around a campfire. He should have listened more closely.

"I imagine that you wouldn't react even if I said that I had men searching for your friends right now, with orders to shoot them on sight, would you?"

It had been a long day. d'Artagnan was tired. He was aching. Everything in his soul just wanted to crawl into a ball and stay there until he died or the world ended, whichever came first. But his friends might be in trouble. With everything he had left, d'Artagnan forced his expression to remain blank, edging closer towards what he hoped was incomprehension when he realised that not reacting at all might be even more suspicious. No matter what, he couldn't let this man see how scared he was.

The man watched him carefully for a long moment, eyes hawk-like as they traced the minute changes in his expression, then he laughed easily. "Either I am wrong, or you bluff better than any man I have known," he said, straightening from where he'd bent over d'Artagnan's hunched form. He kept speaking in French though, which wasn't encouraging. "I cannot decide which. I think this is a puzzle I shall enjoy solving."

He stepped back towards the door, his face still a mix of curious and satisfied. It was threatening in a way his proximity hadn't been, a silent promise that whatever was awaiting d'Artagnan in the future would not be over quickly – this man was going to play with him until he'd got the answers he wanted or until d'Artagnan was dead. No ambiguity, no chance at getting away, just hard, cold certainty.

"My name is Comandante Agustín Villar Montero. I believe that we shall know each other well before our time together is over. Rest, relax. Prepare yourself for your new life within these walls. You shall not be free again."

With that, he left, locking the door on the way out. d'Artagnan hadn't moved the entire time Montero had been in his cell but he needed to get to his feet now, shaking the adrenaline out of his system with a firmness that surprised even him. Something about the man had got under his skin, something slimy and cold and terrifying. d'Artagnan couldn't afford to be afraid of him, couldn't risk the chance that he might falter or break – it would be the end of everything.

But then, who was he trying to fool? He was terrified. There was no way out. No one was coming to save him because they couldn't risk it, not for his sake. It didn't matter what any Spanish Comandante said; this was the end for him and there was nothing he could do about it.

* * *

_Merry Winter everyone – I hope you're all doing well. _

_Translations:_

_¿__Qui__é__n est__á__ ah__í__? – Who's there?_


End file.
